


perfection (and the cracks in between)

by nagireo (happyclover)



Category: Blue Lock (Manga)
Genre: Character Study, Heavy Angst, M/M, Mostly Canon Compliant, POV Second Person, Panic Attacks, Perfectionist tendencies, Self-Harm through Overexertion, Unrealized Mutual Love, you can tell thru these tags that reo suffers a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:16:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27606157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/happyclover/pseuds/nagireo
Summary: You wonder how Isagi was able to provoke this feeling from Nagi in a single match when you’ve been trying for years. Nagi’s eyes are shimmering with something you’ve never seen before, and you don’t know whether to gouge them out or fall in love again. He’s finally compelled by football. It’s what you wanted. It’s a good thing.It wasn’t you who brought him to this point.(Or, Reo's heart keeps shattering throughout Blue Lock).
Relationships: Mikage Reo/Seishirou Nagi
Comments: 8
Kudos: 25





	perfection (and the cracks in between)

Your name is Mikage Reo, and you only know perfection.

It’s an egotistical thing to say, but as the heir to a billion dollar corporation, you’re given substantial leeway to be egotistical. And it’s not a lie; you’ve been blessed with the fortune to inherit riches that King Solomon could only dream of, and not only that, you’ve also meticulously curated your appearance to be immaculate and blameless.

Your mother dotes on you for being a diligent student ranked at the top of your class who turns pages in their textbook every night. Your father takes pride in how, even as a first year, you lead the student council and make “executive” decisions within your school, directing your classmates with easy assertion. Your peers admire you for excelling in all the sports you try (though you only play recreationally) and you often feel desirous eyes lingering on your physique.

You take it all in stride. Flattery, envy, lust… even hatred; they’re all compliments. As part of being perfect, you ensure a measure of humility in your mannerisms, but it’s unmistakable: just as most people couldn’t dream of scaling the world’s highest peak, you are an unreachable existence. Nearly everyone gives you a wide berth because they’re intimidated by you (although there’s no reason to be intimidated; you make sure to be considerate and kind because any space for criticism would mar your image). Other students flit around you, and you grace them with kind smiles and polite exchanges, and it pleases everyone except you.

You won’t admit it, but you’re bored. It used to be you'd ask for anything and everything to fill in the gaping caverns of emptiness you found in your life, but nothing could satiate your all-consuming hunger. So you occupied yourself. Classwork, leadership, sports— they were tedious activities, but at least it was something to do. Competing with yourself became your main occupation: how can you do better than last time; how can you achieve higher; how can you become _perfect_?

(In the darkest moments at night, in aching solitude, something overwhelming engulfs you with a force that knocks away your breath. All you can do is feebly curl into yourself, gasping desperate breaths like a beached whale at the crushing pressure of the atmosphere. You won’t admit it, but you’re scared. Every day, you walk a tightrope, and all your muscles are strained with trying to keep your balance. You can never look down. When you glance at your reflection in the mirror, you despise the cracks only you can see. You want to tear the mirror into shards and leave your fingers bloody.)

You wake the next day and go to class. You are assigned a new book, _The Picture of Dorian Gray,_ and you read it aloud with precise inflection, indistinguishable from the American tourists who worm through Tokyo in the sticky, humid summers. But the novel claws at your throat and threatens to break you out from the composed expressions you wear everyday. You imagine there is a painting of you, disfigured and degraded with every incorrect action you take, and you consider how warped it might be— as abhorrent as a three-eyed Picasso.

At home, your fingers tremble while you hold a pen as you try to will yourself to complete an essay on the novel. _Just write, you useless bastard!_ But every time you think of the beautiful Dorian and his corrupted paintings, you think of your wretched reflection in the mirror, and suddenly, your hand withers like a flower in a scorching desert. You can’t work; your brain feels like static, and no words can penetrate the staccato fog occupying your mind. You turn on the news to distract yourself.

Then, you meet _it_.

The fists pumping in the air, the vast crowds trembling in excitement, ready to unleash a roar at the sight of a ball arcing in the air. The gilded trophy raised in euphoric hands symbolizing victory and glory. You can’t take your eyes away from the scene. Some starved thing is stirring in your stomach, enough to distract you from the task at hand, and you are delighted to reacquaint yourself with desire.

You want to be a part of that world.

For the first time in your life, your parents deny you, and you receive whiplash from the shock of it. They tell you, “Give it up. You were chosen to be the heir of this corporation, not to be a football star.” “We want you to become an elite businessman.” “We want what’s best for your future.” You try to keep a glowering look off your face as they release their scorn for your just-awoken dream, but unexpectedly, your expression remains firmly frustrated. You tell them that it’s fine, but you can’t wipe the disappointment from your eyes. It’s the first blemish you allow them to see in years, and you wonder if your reflection has become uglier.

The denial only fuels your desire. In class, you scheme ways to reach that final pitch: if you can win the national high-school football championship, your parents will have to accept your skill, and then, the path to winning the World Cup will be wide open. But at this elite high school, you wonder if any other students could possibly be useful. Even if you aim to be the superstar of the team, you still need 10 other players; football is impossible to play alone. It’s a frustrating dilemma. Still, you imagine there are at least a couple of other reasonably proficient football players hidden in the woodwork of this school. You just need to lure them out.

Then, you meet _him_.

You manage to stumble into a kid sitting in the stairwell while pondering your situation (that’s strange— you’ve always been conscious of your surroundings. You’ve been making a lot of mistakes recently), and you fumble an apology, but before you know it, you’ve knocked his phone out of his hands, and something incredible happens so quickly you can only recount the scene backwards.

His phone is in his hands, and before that, it’s caught in between the air and floor, balancing precariously on his foot, and before that, he’s launched himself into the air with a movement that sends a breeze whipping through his cotton white hair, and his eyes locked onto his phone, and your arm is outstretched to try to pluck him out of the air before a grievous fall from grace, but he’s already _flying_.

And then suddenly, you’re transported into the current moment, where he’s muttering about HP and your heart is caught in your throat.

You dash down the stairs with unrestrained speed. If you don’t hurry, perhaps this boy will disappear as quickly as he had arrived, and your gut is screaming that you can’t allow that to happen: what he just performed was a perfect trap, and the image of him on the stairs— the fast-moving shadow cast by his back as he flew— unfolds into an image of the two of you standing on the World Cup pitch. You sending a soaring pass above the heads of everyone else on the field, and him catching it with impossible stillness before striking the caught ball directly into the goal.

You can’t let him go.

“Wait!” you call out. “That was amazing. Are you in the football club? Do you wanna play football with me?”

He turns and casts an unperturbed look at you. You knew his hair was a shocking white, but his eyes are even more captivating— they’re a deep, placid blue, like two immeasurable oceanic pools. You could get lost in them. A flash of recognition passes over his face, and you ready yourself for his agreement. Everyone you’ve ever met has acquiesced to your demands, bending as easily as bamboo under the weight of snow. How can they not? There are too many benefits to being in the favor of the heir to the Mikage corporation.

“You’re that guy from the rich family,” he says. Over half of the students at this elite school match his description, but he’s right in that you are undoubtedly from _the_ rich family. Again, you ready yourself for him to accept your proposal, but he instead opens his hand and holds it out to you.

“Give me money,” he says. Your mind is working overtime to interpret this exchange (Is he suggesting you pay him to play for the football team? It’s a crude way of asking, but you aren’t opposed to the arrangement). He interrupts your thoughts by saying, “I don’t play sports, including football.”

Surely that must be impossible. He leapt from the stairs with the agility of a panther and was able to control his body so perfectly he could trap his phone in a single motion. But the impassive expression on his face only speaks to his candidness, and a shiver runs down your back like little spiders playing hopscotch on your vertebrae. If he’s instinctively this good… then there are infinite possibilities for him in the world of football. The image of your father sitting stoically at his desk while rejecting your new dream comes to mind. _Only those that are chosen can play football._

Without a doubt, this boy was chosen.

You’re convinced; there’s something electric pulling you to this boy, and you have never tasted desire so sharp and metallic in your mouth. As a Mikage, you don’t know how to beg, but you are rivaled by no one at flattering others. You say, “How are you so good? You must have a ton of talent! Come play football with me— if we work hard, we might even become pros!”

It’s a lucrative possibility you’re dangling in front of this boy you don’t know; who could reject the fame and fortune that comes along with being a professional athlete? And you can tell that this boy isn’t accustomed to that world— under his uniform, he’s wearing a slouchy black hoodie (compared to your cleanly pressed uniform) and his hair is mussed from bedhead (whereas you get a trim every two weeks and style it every morning with careful hands). After being surrounded by privilege and wealth at this elite high school, wouldn’t he be hungry for a taste of it himself?

He’s not. “Sounds annoying,” he says, and you feel like you’ve fallen flat on your face. “I don’t like to work hard... I wouldn’t want to put in the effort.”

You can’t possibly understand his attitude. Every moment of your existence is strained with effort; effort to behave correctly, effort to maintain the proper appearance, effort to be perfect. The idea of living otherwise is as foreign as wanting to live on Pluto. But you can’t get your father’s words out of your head— you know instinctively that this guy was meant to play football, and you want him by your side.

When have you experienced a want so keen? Ever since you learned there was no material object that could fill the aching void in your life, you haven’t desired a single thing. But now your hunger has a treacherous, gaping maw with bone-white teeth saying it'll only be satisfied if this boy plays with you.

(You won’t admit it, but your existence has been a lonely one.)

You sling an arm around his shoulder and grin widely at him. His impassive expression remains the same. You say, “That’s okay! You don’t have to work hard. Let’s play football together!”

He’s silent for a moment, and the machinations inside his head are impenetrable; his expression stays as cool as from the first moment you saw him. You can only await his answer with bated breath. Finally, he gives a small nod, and all the tension accumulated in your shoulders seeps out. You take your arm off his shoulder and hold your hand out.

“I’m Mikage Reo.”

“Nagi Seishiro,” he says as he clasps your hand, and your heart squeezes nervously for a second. You chalk it up to the joy of having a new friend.

◇-◈-◇

  
Nagi Seishiro captivates you.

You wonder how it is that nobody has captured him yet. Obviously, as a scholarship student at your school, there is little to gain in befriending him; he holds no influence in the world of power and politics you swim in the muck of regularly. Still, you think there is something magnetic about him. His hair is soft like corn silk (you know because you casually thread your fingers through it when you muss it as part of friendly banter) and reminds you of pastoral cotton fields. His eyes are a gilded kingfisher blue, and the way they’re lidded gives him a perpetually sleepy look that tugs at your heart. It feels like a secret when you trace the contours of his face with your gaze, pausing where the tip of his nose turns up.

But there's something shameful about this secret, so you find yourself darting your eyes away so he can’t catch you in the illicit act. It’s not quite normal to be fixated on someone’s appearance so much (even if that person’s face rivals marble statues). You know that your gaze should land on one of the many girls who long for your attention, who smile so warmly when you give your polite, meaningless responses, but nothing about them draws you in like how Nagi can.

To distract yourself from his image, your mouth runs off like a weepy nose during a dreadful cold. You learn Nagi really knows nothing about football— quite literally, _nothing_ (for a day, you doubt if this boy was actually chosen to play football, but then you set a ball in front of him on the pitch, and he moves so naturally that you almost fall to your knees). Your words become an unending torrent in front of him, and it's embarrassing, but you can’t stop yourself. Strangely, he doesn’t seem to mind.

He’s a lazy genius. He skips class and somehow manages to score relatively good grades; sleeps through lecture, but always has a smart answer ready when the teacher calls on him. You quickly understand how he got a scholarship to study at this school. At first, you think all your lectures about football slip out of his ears like trying to hold water in a sieve, but then you realize that somehow, he holds onto the important things. He learns the rules more quickly than you imagine, and when you show him short football clips, he’s fast to notice players’ mistakes. If he put in a little more effort, he could easily surpass where you are now.

He doesn’t, and you remember how you said ‘ _You don’t have to work hard_ ,’ so you make it a point to never demand too much from him. It works out. Once you announce your intentions to create a football team, several students take it as an opportunity to get close to you, like flies to honey. You form a reliable team, and on the first day of practice, you tell them that winning the World Cup is your dream. You’re greeted with polite smiles and small cheers, but you know no one would be rash enough to contradict the heir to the Mikage corporation. Their eyes stutter, and you realize they don’t believe you.

Then, you meet Nagi’s eyes. As always, they feel like dipping into a placid lake, and your restlessness calms in his gaze. There’s no mirth in his eyes, no doubt. Just like you, he’s sincere, and you try to ignore how your heart imperceptibly turns towards him.

Later, you’re having lunch sitting at Nagi’s desk, and you tell him about a recent football game (the Reds against the S-Pulse; for some inane reason, Nagi had decided the Reds are his favorite J1 team despite them being the most hated team in the league). Another student pulls a chair up to grab your attention, and you notice a flicker of annoyance pass through Nagi’s face, but it’s so subtle no one besides you would see.

Sometimes, you curse your amicable demeanor— there have always been students flocking to your presence, and it only seems natural that planets would orbit a star, but you know Nagi enjoys his solitude. If you were someone else, you might brush them off with a cold glance, but you’ve tightly bound yourself to rules of courtesy, and so you must face the student with a polite smile and greeting.

He asks you about your opinion on a business merger, and it’s just a simple question, but somehow, it drains you. You’ve already announced your intentions publicly to be a football player, but it has passed over your peers’ heads. They don’t believe you. You feel small and helpless, like that moment when you were standing in front of your father’s desk as he was denying you with his all too stern tone.

You say carefully, courteously, in a way that would invite no disagreement, “Sorry, Ishizaki-san. I don't know about this type of thing. You should ask someone else."

And he gives you a look as if he is examining an alien lifeform, like he is placing you under a microscope and finding flaws in your skin. “It’s weird,” he says, “that the heir to the Mikage corporation wouldn't know about these types of things.” The words jab something sensitive in you, and hot blood pools in your cheeks. Is it really so foolish to want a different life?

“What do you mean?” Nagi asks. Both you and Ishizaki-san startle— it’s extraordinary for Nagi to speak if there is no one directly engaging him. He says, “Reo doesn’t need to know about any of that. He’s gonna be a professional football player.”

Your jaw drops (an unrefined action— you quickly pick it back up), and before you know it, something warm curls in your heart and flutters its wings in your stomach. You can’t hold back from staring at Nagi, but his eyes are currently burning a hole into Ishizaki-san.

The other student stutters. “Th- that can’t be. He has more important responsibilities—”

Nagi’s eyes narrow imperceptibly, and he says, “He told me himself.” You can’t stop the smile spreading on your face. It feels so different from the smiles that you usually give— those restrained, proper, closed-mouth expressions that have become second habit. The warmth in your chest is blooming into something honey sweet, and you like how it sticks to your tongue.

“It’s true,” you add, and it’s a wonder to hear how a genuine smile adds such levity to your words. “In the future, Nagi and I will be the best football players in the world.”

The other student leaves in a daze, but you can’t quit smiling, and you can’t resist leaning in closer towards Nagi, propping your shoulder against his. Feelings are fleeting (even now, the happiness warming your heart is starting to cool off), but you imagine you will keep this memory forever.

(You won’t admit it, but you might be in love.)

  
◇-◈-◇

  
There are less nights where you lie in bed, crushed by the immense weight of the world. There are less of those fearful nights where you imagine your distorted reflection crawling out the mirror and wringing your neck; less nights of gasping breaths and overworked hearts. It’s counterintuitive— your preoccupation with football means you’re too busy to maintain your meticulous appearance, and you think the cracks in your exterior are now visible to the other students. Still, it’s easier to breathe these days.

There’s no point in denying it— it’s Nagi. As you spend more time with him, you realize that he doesn’t care about the masks you put on. He doesn’t bat an eye when you launch into soliloquies on the aesthetic beauty of football. Sometimes, you feel exposed in his gaze, but it doesn't bother you. You like that he knows you.

One day, your father calls you into his office, and even before you push the door open, a thick sludge has settled into the pit of your stomach, and you can’t keep the crawling sensation of dread away. You already know what this conversation will be about. You open the door, and you see your father sitting at his desk, his chin resting on his intertwined, wrinkled hands. He has a dark look in his eyes, and he is staring at the floor. Your mother sits to his side, and she gives you a piteous look. You swallow.

“I’ve heard that you’ve started a football club at your school,” he says, and though the words are benign, his tone distorts them into an accusation. Some familiar, sinister thing clutches at your windpipe, and you think, _No— not now_! You can’t imagine how humiliating it would be for you to fall to your knees and have your parents witness the surges of terror that sweep you at night. You forcefully steady your breath, trying to keep the monsters at bay for just a little longer.

“I’m still at the top of my class. I’m still leading the student council.”

“You know we’re opposed to this, but you still chose to disobey us.” His words are muffled, and you feel like you are trapped in a fishbowl; sounds and images stretched out like a funhouse mirror. It terrifies you. Then, you blink, and the illusion is dispelled. _Breathe_ , you tell yourself.

“Reo,” your mother says, her voice slippery with persuasion. “Dear, we love you so much, and we can’t bear to see you go down the wrong path. Think of how hard your father’s worked.” Her mouth is smiling, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. It’s a conciliatory gesture. You realize she thinks you’re being ungrateful. Perhaps you are.

“Reo, we’re doing this for your own good. There’s no reason for you to waste your time and energy on something you can’t obtain. Winning the World Cup? Hah.” Your father laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “You know your abilities. Even if you become good, you won’t be able to reach that level— it’s too late for you, now. Don’t be stubborn and try to cling onto a childish dream.”

The remark smarts as if he had thrown embers at your face. The thing clenching your throat has slackened its grip enough for you to talk, but you can tell that nothing you say would convince your parents. You persist anyway. “You don’t know that… I’m working hard for this dream. We’re winning a lot right now— it _could_ happen. Just let me try. I’ll prove it to you.”

As a Mikage, you don’t know how to beg, but you’re getting pretty damn close right now.

Your father shakes his head, and the smile has been wiped from your mother’s face. Your father says, “You’ve disappointed us Reo. You can go, now.”

At that word, _disappointment_ , the thing with steel claws starts gripping your throat again, and you turn on your heel. You try to exit the room with composure, but your steps have become unsteady, and once you’re out of your parents’ sight, you’re practically fleeing down the hallways, though you don’t know where to go. It doesn’t take you long to stumble into one of the many empty rooms in this large house. You lock the door behind you and fall to the floor, curling in on yourself.

You have to choke down each breath, and the struggle brings hot tears to your eyes while your heart hammers away erratically. The air drenches your bones in fatigue, and there is a violent cacophony of cymbals crashing in your head. The seconds move by imperceptibly, and you wonder how long you might have to suffer in this hell (you’re scared it might be the rest of your life). But the seconds bleed into minutes, and even though each moment brings new pain, you’re still breathing, and eventually, the next day comes.

When you wake up the following morning and peer into the mirror, you realize your face looks like shit (only in comparison to your usual self. If everyone else is the baseline, you still look pretty good). Your skin is pallid and your eyes are puffy. You consider skipping school for the day, but the idea extinguishes itself quickly; after the conversation with your parents, there’s no way you can skip. You splash cold water onto your face and leave.

When you arrive at your school, you find yourself moving on autopilot, easily slipping into the meticulous persona you’ve crafted for years. You dispense genial smiles and remarks as if second nature. You make conversation with your peers, saying nothing of importance and giving nothing away. In class, you participate with thoughtful responses that result in the teacher’s praise. It’s like sand through a sieve; the world just passes by.

It’s lunchtime, and you find yourself standing on the school roof, staring at nothing. It occurs to you that you might spend the entire break like this, letting static in your ears play as you stare into the inscrutable blue sky. Somehow, it doesn’t alarm you. You content yourself with staying still, but someone prods your arm, lifting the anaesthetic fog clouding your mind, and as you turn to face them, you confront a very different shade of blue.

You wouldn’t have expected Nagi to come find you through his own volition; it’s always you seeking out his company. His face is impenetrable as always, but you admire how the sun hits his skin. Suddenly, you become conscious of your appearance again. You hope his apathetic nature means he won’t look too closely, or even if he does, he won’t recognize the dregs of yesterday’s terror on your features.

“Where were you? We’ve had lunch together every day for the past month.” Even if his words seem vaguely accusatory, he’s hardly whining. He states it like a simple fact.

“I thought some fresh air would be good.” It sounds unconvincing to you, but he nods and sits down on the rooftop, then pats the ground next to him. You follow his move.

With Nagi around, the haze has mostly lifted, but you still feel some residual numbness. Nagi pulls out his bento, and unexpectedly, he places a pair of chopsticks in your hand. You stare at them, uncomprehending while Nagi places the bento so it rests on both your knees.

“Let’s share,” he says, and you blink in confusion. He nudges you carefully with his knee, being considerate to not spill his lunch.

You shake your head. “Thanks, but I have my own food.” But as you speak, he’s already partitioning the food, dropping morsels into your side of the bento.

It’s strange. Early into your friendship, you realized Nagi was always staring at your lunch (not a surprise considering the food your family’s chef prepared was both delicious and high-quality). From that point onwards, you always made sure to pack a little extra so Nagi could have some. Perhaps today is simply his way of returning the favor.

You savor the piece of hamburger steak Nagi’s given you in silence. Once that lunch is done, you pull out your own bento, and you and Nagi eat that in silence as well, but it’s comfortable. There’s no pressure to say anything. As you eat, the heaviness weighing you clears away, and when you catch a small smile on Nagi’s mouth, the numbness penetrating your core completely vanishes.

At the end of the meal, he asks, “Do you feel better?”

It doesn’t surprise you that he noticed. You give a small nod while you watch a cloud drift slowly.

“It must be hard,” he says.

This does surprise you, and you turn to him with a clear question in your eyes. He goes on, “Not that you have to talk about it. But if you want to... I’ll listen.”

Your cheeks flush and your heart jolts into a rabbit-quick beat. His eyes remind you of how the sea glints off an iceberg, but the cold is soothing. So much of your life has been a metamorphic process; the application of extreme heat and pressure so you can solidify into a diamond for others. The nonchalant cold is refreshing. Nagi makes eye contact with you, and you think, _That’s unfair_.

Your reflection, with its fangs and dark eyes, is chipping away at the fragile shell you’ve created. You didn’t expect it to speak today, but its forked tongue flickers out, and you can’t help but voice its grievances with an acrid smile. “I talked to my parents yesterday. They told me that they love me and that they can’t bear to see me go down a bad path. My dad said I shouldn’t be wasting my time on useless things. I'm lucky, right? To have parents that care so much about me?” The words taste foul in your mouth, and you think exposing Nagi to your venomous tone will make him turn away from you.

Instead, he replies, “That’s dumb.”

“Your parents make it sound like you’ve decided to join the yakuza or something.” You snort a little at his response. He hesitates for another moment and then says, “It’s not a bad path. And I’ll help you through it.”

Your heart squeezes suddenly, and it’s painful, but you might like this sort of pain. His eyes are impossibly still and liquid. You think you should be frightened by how calm you feel around him— fear is the thing that keeps you still on the edge of a precipice; fear is what gives you the semblance of perfection— but you aren’t. His sincerity pulls at a loose thread you’ve kept in your tightly wound heart, and you don’t mind how things unravel at his feet. It’s beautiful, in a way.

“We can be the best football players in the world.” The way you say it sounds like a promise, and when Nagi nudges his shoulders against yours, it is sanctified through touch.

  
◇-◈-◇

  
Years pass, and you learn more about Nagi. He tells you about his favorite easter eggs in the many video games he plays, murmurs his disgust when there’s too much icing on a cupcake (which is basically every time he sees a cupcake), and tells you he misses his dog that died a few years back— so much so that he can’t contemplate adopting a new one. Every detail you learn about him feels like a precious gift, and you keep these fragments of his identity tucked away in your heart.

Your attraction to him only grows. You think his eyelashes are like snowflakes against the backdrop of a winter landscape at night. You think about the cherry blossom pink of his lips, and the curve of his ears, and the way his hair gathers at the nape of his neck. Or how in the locker room, sometimes he has only a towel wrapped around his waist, and you can see the dip in his hip, and your mouth suddenly dries. It maddens you.

You think he must have seen it in your eyes— a look that lingered for too long. A gaze tinged with too much interest. But he never brings it up, and neither do you, so you live with the madness. It’s better this way; you can no longer imagine what life would be like without Nagi.

You find moments of serenity in football. You and Nagi complement each other well, and the two of you have been able to lift this football team to the level of prefecture and national championships, but you haven’t won yet. Time is running out, but you don’t know what else you can do to push further ahead. You pour all your time into the team, trying to shape every player into the best they can be so you can move further ahead. That is, every player except Nagi.

 _If he put in some effort_ — but you cut the thought off. You still remember what you said when you first met him. And you know Nagi still doesn’t want to put in the effort. He enjoys football, but only recreationally. It’s just something to pass time.

You’re in the middle of a game, and you’re pushing up the field, trying to find a way to attack. Your team and the opposing one are tied with zero points, and the match is starting to feel drawn out. If you score a goal here, the momentum will be with you. Nagi is further upfield, and he sends you a look. Just a look, but something electric is passed through it, and you know to pass it. Except it’s more than just that— you know exactly _how_ to pass it to Nagi, to set him up for the next goal. But it’s more than that, too. He’s _compelling_ you to pass it in a certain way, and you’re _compelling_ him to receive it in a certain way, and when you kick the ball into a high-flying parabolic path, everything seems to align perfectly.

It’s like you know him through and through, so much so that you can see the goal even before it happens. This image overlaps with the one you had imagined when you first met him— the two of you on the World Cup pitch; you sending a soaring pass; him catching it with impossible stillness and then striking it into the goal.

The ball lands in the net, and you are transported back to the current moment. Normally, when Nagi scores, you would jump and tackle him, but your feet are frozen to the ground. Only now, out of the heat of the moment of play do you understand the significance of what happened, and it takes your breath away. You can’t but help and stare at his figure in open amazement.

 _It’s possible_ , you think. _We might really become the best_.

The referee blows the whistle, and you are shaken from your stupor. As you jog back into position, you can’t help but mouth, _he really is a treasure_.

Later, in the locker room, Nagi approaches you and says, “You didn’t jump on me after that goal.”

“Sorry. I was a little out of it." It surprises you, though, that Nagi wants his goal to be formally recognized by you. But it’s only normal for people to want praise for a job well done, and that goal was a small wonder. “Good job,” you say. “You played well.”

Nagi isn’t satisfied by your words. “You have to make up for it. I want a piggyback ride.” The request has you laughing; you think it’s unusual for Nagi to be so demanding, but there’s something cute about it, like how a kitten might turn its wide eyes towards you for a pet. You obediently bend over, and Nagi wraps his arms around your shoulders.

You’re both grimy from playing, but the sensation of his body pressed against your back doesn’t escape you. You’re glad you’re the one carrying him— you wouldn’t want Nagi to be aware of your thundering heartbeat. You try to play it off, saying, “This kind of feels like you’re my little brother.” The words are thick in your mouth, and you don’t think they sound believable.

“Why did you want a piggyback ride?” you ask.

“My legs are tired from scoring all those goals for you.” You can’t help but laugh again.

You visit each other’s houses. The first time you arrive at Nagi’s house, you’re flustered with anxiety— you _have_ to make a good impression on his parents. You dress smartly in a button down shirt and trousers and bring a bottle of wine that was highly lauded by a connoisseur who had visited your house last week. His mother opens the door, and you catch Nagi standing behind her wearing sweatpants, and you feel _dumb_ , but then she smiles warmly and wraps you in a tight hug, and you feel completely at ease (For a moment, you wonder how someone with such a warm mother could end up having such an implacable face. Then, you meet his father and understand).

When his mother tells you how worried she was about Nagi when he first entered this school, you have a subtle realization. For a while, you had thought you were something like an emotional leech to Nagi— amidst the tumultuous waves that rocked your life, you clung onto his stability greedily without giving anything in return. When his mother speaks, you realize you’re the closest peer he has and that he relies on your company, too. You feel like spring has bloomed in your chest, and you can’t stop smiling for the rest of the dinner.

Nagi comes over to your house regularly. Your parents are curious about his presence, seeing as someone from a lower economic class managed to become close friends with their son (you don’t tell them about the football pact you’ve made. They’d figure out a way to forcibly disappear him if they ever knew). When Nagi mentions being excited for the release of a video game, you always happen to obtain a copy on the day of release. (“Rich people,” he scoffs, but you know he’s secretly thrilled).

There are countless evenings where Nagi is sitting on the couch, wordlessly demolishing enemies in the latest video game, while your head is in his lap, flipping through one set of papers or another: Mikage corporation budget reports, chemistry notes, student council forms. The work never ends. Then, your eyes drift upwards and you admire Nagi from below. (How does he manage to look good from such an unflattering angle? You don’t know). It’s bliss. You try not to think about what it would be like to have more, to have Nagi run his fingers through your hair or press a palm against your cheek.

The nights where you are held hostage by an unbreakable pressure dwindle down. You don’t know if they will ever completely disappear from your life, but for now, it’s bearable.

You and your parents still fight over your future, recycling the same arguments and throwing the same poisonous words to each other. Even when you are not actively fighting, there is an uneasy tension between you. Your insistence on playing football has worn them down to some degree, but you can tell that they are waiting patiently for your failure. Each argument leaves you stinging the next day, and Nagi is always able to tell. His presence is a salve. He reaffirms your promise every time.

One day, you have a fight that wreaks particular devastation upon you.

Your father says, “What happened to you? What happened to our perfect son? We used to be so proud of you.”

There’s a vacuum in your lungs, and you have no words. You think of Dorian Gray and how the canvas with your portrait must be thick with rot and how its edges must be blackening. You think of what it is like to stand on a parapet your entire life, having faces peer up at you every day, and the necessity of keeping your back incredibly straight. You think of how tired you are of holding this posture, but you did it. You did it for them, and still, they see you as a failure. You think, _why can’t you be proud of me_ , but you already know the answer. Hot tears come to your eyes. It’d be humiliating to wipe them away, but it’d also be humiliating to let them fall. You’re stuck, once again.

The night is torturous. You spend it alternating between sobbing into your sheets and being clutched in the grip of a very familiar enemy. Amidst the sobs and hyperventilation, you think you’re drowning, and you wonder if you will survive the night or if your parents will find a cold, blue corpse with hands wrapped around its neck in the morning. When you’re too exhausted to cry anymore, you fall into a restless sleep that gives you no solace.

The next day seems to come in only scraps and fragments. First, you’re looking in the mirror, carefully parting your hair with trembling fingers, trying to ignore your hollow eyes and ghost-white complexion. Then, you’re in class, mechanically writing your teacher’s lecture, but your notes are incoherent and jumbled, and your handwriting looks more like chicken scratch. Then, you’re standing on the school roof, wondering how you got here. You don’t know what to do or where to go. You’re stuck.

You wonder if zero-gravity is like this: the feeling of being suspended in a void, tethered to nothing, enveloped in a solution that leaves you cold and empty. But as you rest in your brain fog, something keeps tugging at your hand, and then you feel a hot breath against your ear, and you startle yourself out of your vacuity.

It’s Nagi, as it always is. He's frowning, and his eyebrows are drawn together, making a subtle crease on his forehead, and you think of trying to smooth the wrinkle away with a soft touch and a smile, but your limbs are heavy. It might be easier if he just goes away.

He grips your shoulders and shakes you back and forth, saying something that doesn’t quite reach your ears. You finally turn all your attention to him, dragging your consciousness out of the torpid muck that has been insulating you all day.

“Reo! Reo—” he says, and you nod, and something like relief passes through his eyes. You’ve always thought of his eyes as tranquil pools to float in, but they’re agitated and sparking with electric uncertainty now. You feel ashamed that you made Nagi worry so much.

“I’m here,” you say softly, although you don’t know how true that statement really is.

He pulls you into a hug, pressing his face into your shoulder. If you hadn’t been trapped in such a sedative stupor, you think your heart would be racing right now. “What happened?” he asks.

_What happened to you? What happened to our perfect son?_

You have no words. Instead, you say, “I'm tired. I wanna take a nap,” and Nagi pulls away from the hug and nods. He sits down, crosses his legs and pats his thigh, indicating where you should rest your head. You’re familiar with this gesture now, but the invitation still warms a small corner of your heart. You rest your head on his lap, close your eyes, and think it’s silly to expect 20 minutes of sleep to make you feel better, but you can’t resist the call of fatigue, so you sleep.

When you wake up, the sky has noticeably dimmed and is stained with the pink of a setting sun. You think you should be alarmed— you didn’t mean to skip an entire day of class, but you realize Nagi has draped his school jacket over your torso, and the sight of that quells any anxiety you have. You wonder if Nagi is cold, but he’s wearing a dark sweatshirt today— similar to the one he wore when you first met him. In the years you’ve known him, he’s grown, but his taste in clothes has remained constant.

Nagi is absorbed in a mobile game on his phone, but he blinks down at you when he feels you rustling awake. You feel a touch of guilt for making him stay still so long, and you break your gaze by turning your head into his side. “What time is it?” you ask, your voice rough with sleep.

“Almost dinner time,” he replies. He doesn’t seem to want to move, though. Just wordlessly goes back to his game.

For some ungodly reason, you find yourself reaching out for his hand, and after a moment of fumbling, he intertwines his fingers with yours, and you bring the laced hands close to your face. It’s comforting, but it’s shameless. Despite sleeping for several hours, you’re too tired to care about propriety right now.

“What is it?” he asks. You wonder if it’s uncomfortable for the two of you to be in such an intimate position; your head in his lap, his jacket draped over your body. He can surely feel your breath on his hand from this distance. You’re being greedy; you shouldn’t want more; you should be content with what you have with Nagi, because really—

“You’re the only one that believes me.”

Yes. That’s right. You have a far-flung dream that is childish and impossible, but it fills your heart and attaches you to this world. Without football, you would simply be performing others commands, drifting in your expected role, unable to understand what it means to actually want something. And Nagi is the only person who supports you.

“Everyone else has expectations of me… Nobody else believes me when I say I’ll become the greatest football player in the world. They can only see my life through the lens of my family. And my family only sees me through the lens of responsibility… to take responsibility for my name... for the company... for the Mikage legacy…”

You say, “You’re different, Nagi.” Your voice has gotten low and soft because you’re so afraid to whisper these thoughts that have been buried in your heart for so long. “Honestly, I didn’t believe in myself until I met you… but then I _did_ meet you, and I saw my future. I could see something more than what other people told me to do… something I chose for myself...”

It’s mortifying, to peel away layers of your flesh and to expose your tender, secretive heart. You think you might die in the process, but you want Nagi to understand— you want him to truly know you. You pull his hand closer to your face, close enough to where your lips brush against the back of his hand with each word, and you should be appalled at your shamelessness, but you just don’t want to feel alone anymore.

“I’m grateful for you,” you say.

“I know football doesn’t interest you the way it interests me... Right now, it’s just something you do. And you like it, but… it’s different for me. I can’t explain it except that it gives me life…”

You don’t know what you could possibly give Nagi that could show how thankful you are for him. You think of the alchemy and the law of equivalent exchange, and you say, “I want to show that part of football to you. As part of my gratitude, I want to teach you a football you love.”

It’s cathartic. The wounds you received from your parents yesterday haven’t healed by any means, but the air is more breathable today. You finally release Nagi’s hand. You wish you could fall asleep again, but you can hear Nagi’s stomach grumbling (you guiltily wonder if he even had the chance to eat lunch). You stand up and hold a hand outward to help your friend up.

It’s probably the evening light, but you think Nagi’s cheeks are dusted with a rosy hue. You can’t quite describe the look in his eyes, but they’re glowing with something that twists your heart in an uncomfortable way. You smile and say, “Let’s get dinner,” and he gives a small nod that scatters pink light across his platinum hair.

Your name is Mikage Reo, and you are in love with Nagi Seishiro.

  
◇-◈-◇

  
The next day, you and Nagi receive invitations to Blue Lock.

  
◇-◈-◇

  
You lose the game.

It’s not like you haven’t lost games before; of course you have— loss is an inevitable component of competition. But you have never lost quite like _this_ , in a way that so firmly reminds you of your own mortality that you wonder if you are staring at your grave. You can’t name whatever it is you’re feeling: you wish you could relegate it to just anger or sadness, but the emotion surges too precariously, unbalances you so much that you can’t call it a single thing.

It’s because of Nagi. He’s been struck by something intangible and the features on his face have morphed into an expression you thought you would never see. He’s _captivated_. He says, “Hey, Reo… fighting your all and still losing… it’s so frustrating.” And though he says that, you know what he really means.

_Hey, Reo. Football is fun._

You thought if you had ever heard those words escape Nagi’s mouth, you would be enthralled with him finally catching up to you— finally finding life in the sport you’ve been tirelessly chasing for years. But now, in this moment, you don’t feel that way at all; instead, when you hear Nagi speak, it’s like a curse has razed the earth and left all your fields barren. You think of stormy clouds and winds that threaten to rip your throat out. You feel desolate. You don’t understand why.

You wonder how Isagi was able to provoke this feeling from Nagi in a single match when you’ve been trying for years. Nagi’s eyes are shimmering with something you’ve never seen before, and you don’t know whether to gouge them out or fall in love again. He’s finally compelled by football. It’s what you wanted. It’s a good thing.

It wasn’t you who brought him to this point. And pity is an ugly thing, but you feel it for yourself. Why was it Isagi? Why wasn’t it you? You think of how you told Nagi you’d teach him a football he loves— unexpectedly, a complete stranger has stolen the opportunity from under your feet.

You try to put it out of your mind. At Blue Lock, there’s always another game. You’ll be able to strike in that moment.

  
◇-◈-◇

  
He chooses to play with Isagi instead of you.

At first, you think it might be a joke. You, Nagi, and football have been an inseparable trinity for years, so when you hear, “Then I’ll join your team. That’d be fine, right?” it almost registers as gibberish. But then you see his face, and you feel the arteries in your heart twist like a braided rope. You recognize his steady, sincere expression— in fact, you’re relied on it many times. You never knew that seeing it could plunge a burning dagger into your guts.

“What are you thinking?” you ask, your voice hot with accusation, but you can hear a vague tremor run through it. It’s weak. “What’ll happen to me?”

He looks at you, and again, there is something indescribable in his eyes— an energy flickering like the scorching, innermost part of a flame. It extinguishes the words accumulating in your throat. _It’s not me,_ you think. _I’m not the one who brought him to this state_. Over Nagi’s shoulder, you see the unassuming boy with bright blue eyes stare at Nagi with interest, and the most wretched jealousy clutches at your throat. Another wayward brushstroke on your portrait, another mar on your image.

“Reo, you taught me about football, and we can be the best together for sure. But we lost… we weren’t the strongest… this is the first time I’ve felt this frustration, and in order for me to understand it… I want to play football with this guy.”

“I want to try and put in some effort.”

There is something sublime in disaster, and you can’t tear your eyes away from how Nagi callously creates wreckage from your heart. If Isagi has compelled Nagi, the boy who had told you from the very start that he didn’t want to put in the effort to really dedicate his talents to football, then there’s no point in you trying to hold him back. It’s a foregone conclusion.

_Why wasn’t it me?_

You can’t help the hot, anguished grief that bubbles up in your throat, and Nagi, with his slender, white fingers and his cool gaze, has somehow torn off your impeccable mask. It’s unbecoming, but you allow your feelings to cloud your face for a fraction of a second before looking at the ground. You open your mouth, thinking about giving one last word of protest, but you’re well acquainted with the notion of futility. There’s nothing else to say.

“Do what you want.”

Later, when you are in an unfamiliar bed, next to two sleeping strangers who are Isagi’s former teammates, that conversation plays on rewind in your mind, and every iteration turns the words crueler and sharper. You’re smarting from the betrayal, and you feel that monster, with its sharp teeth, wide grin, and rapacious appetite, hum inside you. There’s a dark possessiveness overtaking your heartbeat, and you think, _I’ll make you regret it_.

You think, _I’ll make you say you need me_.

Despite being a Mikage and witnessing how your father schemed the destruction of other people’s businesses, you have never been driven by a need to dominate. It surprises you, the way this cold feeling snakes its way into your heart and feels natural. You want to defeat him in a way so resounding and final that it obliterates his ego and causes him to question his mortality. You want him to turn those eyes with _that_ expression on you.

  
◇-◈-◇

  
You lose the game.

After a short discussion, they choose to take in Chigiri instead of you. _Nagi_ chooses Chigiri instead of you.

You don’t quite know how you feel: your emotions fluctuate wildly in a way you think might tear your brain apart. There are moments of anesthetic numbness followed by burning frustration and anger followed by complete desolation. It’s exhausting. You can’t even stand up.

Before Nagi’s team leaves, he turns to you and says, “You’re amazing after all. We were able to gamble because we believed in your talent.”

The wretched beast who lives in the mirror and shares your likeness scoffs at that. _Belief? If you really believed in me, you wouldn’t have left me in the first place. What good is your belief in me now?_ A part of you agrees with those words, but a larger part flinches in horror. Nagi was the first— no, the _only_ one to believe in you. Without that, your dream would have collapsed in on itself by now.

His compliments taste like ashes on your tongue. The words mean nothing without action, but Nagi has already acted. He only moves forward, and you can only trace the dust he leaves in his wake. It’s silly to expect him to turn back, to keep you within his eyesight, but you desperately want it right now. You say, “Then choose me.”

You are a Mikage, and Mikages never beg, but you are begging right now.

Your tongue feels thick from the humiliating act, and poisonous words roll off of it as if to wash it clean. _No_ , you think, as that thing in the mirror cackles when it recognizes your emotional turmoil as an opportunity to speak. _Don’t say anything_ , but your mouth is already opening, and that foul part of you is saying, “I don’t need your pretty words. Just say it clearly. You don’t care about me anymore.”

 _Stop_ , you think, but saying these words gives you the bitter, rich taste of red wine on your lips, and it’s intoxicating. “You’ve changed… you’ve forgotten our promise to be the best, _together_ …”

“If you’re abandoning me, abandon me properly, you shit.”

The words leave your mouth, and you’re sick to your stomach. You shouldn’t have said that— you should have controlled yourself. _Fuck_ , what were all those years of balancing on a tightrope for, if not for moments like these? You’ve failed, and all you can do now is wait for Nagi’s judgement.

His eyes are cold. He asks, “Would you be satisfied if I chose you? And then what? Making a team even if it wasn’t exciting… did you really think that becoming the best in the world would be so easy?”

“The one who forgot our promise is you.”

Just those words seem to twist your inner organs into a gory mess, but then his next ones have a certain cadence that turns your blood cold.

“Whatever. I’ve had enough of this. You’re a pain in the ass, Reo.”

And your mind is spinning, trying to name the thing leaking into his voice.

“I don’t care anymore.”

And _oh_ , you suddenly realize, with a new surge of shame. _It’s disgust_.

Then Isagi says, “Reo, you shouldn’t aim to be ‘the one that gets chosen’... you should aim to be ‘the one that chooses.’ Otherwise, what are you playing football for?” And you immediately want to bash his skull in— you hate his patronizing advice, his dumb blue eyes, his voice, and most of all, how he’s fucking _right_.

 _What are you playing football for?_ Once, the answer would be an image of that golden, gilded trophy being lifted in the air amidst the screams of thousands of fans, but now, you only think of the way your and Nagi’s hands wrapped into each other’s on the school roof.

You’re ashamed. You can’t bear to look at them. There is something groaning in you, afflicted with the deepest grief you’ve ever known, and you think you might cry. You might cry at how the person you love looked at you the way he looks at cockroaches on the sidewalk, at how he finally _did_ abandon you properly, saying _I don’t care_.

It hurts, you think, and you see no way to alleviate the hurt. You can only live through the pain.

Kunigami lifts you from your position on the ground, grabbing the back of your collar, forcing you to watch their receding backs. “Don’t look away now,” he grits out. “If you do, it’s the end of us!”

It’s nighttime, and it’s just you and Kunigami. You can tell he’s frustrated that Chigiri was chosen over him in the way he tosses and turns in his sleep, but you have no spare emotional reserves to comfort him. You hardly have any to deal with yourself.

You don’t want to confront the horrible, wretched thing that has been slithering in the back of your mind since Nagi chose to play with Isagi, but you can’t continue to ignore it. It’s there, screaming for attention, tugging on your ankles with its disgraceful hands, and you’ve fixated your stare straight ahead, not looking down from the platform you’ve always precariously stood on, but the monster is here to tip you over. And it says—

_Maybe you’re not enough._

You find yourself in the bathroom, hunched over the sink in the middle of the night, completely alone except for the disquieting buzz of fluorescent lights that cast the walls with an eerie brightness. Admitting the thought is physically sickening— it’s like a thick slug is crawling in your throat, and suddenly, you’re gagging over the sink with a sour taste spreading across your tongue. The indignity of your posture does not escape you, and you wonder what others would think if they gazed upon you now. Their image of the perfect little boy would be shattered. You can’t help yourself from looking at your reflection.

It’s _disgusting_. You have bruise-black bags underneath your eyes, and your skin is pallid and lifeless underneath the glaring lights. But you’re more ugly than just your physical appearance— the cracks in the façade you’ve been cultivating for years have reached to every corner of your person: you’re neither the perfect little heir that's ready to wield his power as a businessman, nor are you the talented football star that could stand on the World Cup pitch. You’re nothing. You grip your fingers into the ceramic sides of the sink with a force you wish could grind your bones into dust. Every breath you take is a heaving shudder, and you’re _crying_. Hot tears slip from your cheeks into the muddled white sink basin. As if you couldn’t become any uglier, you just had to cry, too.

You’re a failure.

You’ve dedicated so much time crafting yourself as a flawless doll, but now the seams are unraveling, and despite your desperate attempts, your spoiled stuffing is spilling out of your body. You wonder if Nagi already knew this. How long has he been gazing upon you with his deep blue eyes, judging your countless mistakes and slip-ups? How long has he realized that you’re now disposable to him?

The thought causes you to dry-heave into the sink again. And after the fit, once again, you are compelled to look in the mirror and witness your ugliness— the thin line of saliva dribbling from your mouth, the glassy redness in your eyes. You think you see what Nagi saw in that moment when he turned away in disgust. You want to take your fist and slam it into the surface of the mirror— perhaps that pain would be better than this pain; perhaps something hot and sharp and bloody would be a welcome reprieve to the sludge that has settled into your bones and poisoned your insides.

You restrain yourself. The noise might make someone wake up, and if that happened, then they would see you crying, and you can never, _ever_ allow anyone to know about your weaknesses. You’ve already failed enough. You can’t endure another humiliation.

You don’t know where to go from here. You feel like you’ve reached some irrevocable point with Nagi, and you can’t expect him to wait for you, especially after the things you’ve said. At the same time, you can’t bear the idea he might be gone forever. What can you do?

You have to become the best on your own. Once he sees that, he’ll have no choice but to accept you.

(You won’t admit it, but you’re lonely.)

  
◇-◈-◇

  
You lose the game.

Nagi says something kind to you after the match, and the words register as rain pattering against a windowpane. It doesn’t matter what he says— even before the match ended, you understood the outcome.

“It’s not enough,” you say, and Nagi pauses.

He has no choice but to agree. “Yeah.” It’s what you expected, but the word still cuts into you.

You wonder what an appropriate response might be— there’s no way you can try to claw and whine at Nagi, begging him to take you back as you did last time. The first time you debased yourself so low, whimpering like a mongrel, you had seen that look on his face. You remember how he said, _You’re a pain in the ass, Reo_ and the despair that followed. It was nothing short of a scorched earth policy for your soul.

You never want to live through that again, so you have to be gracious; you have to be determined— you can’t let him see the ways your bones are drenched in defeat and how your blood is thick with failure. You find yourself pulling at the vestiges of high school and think _immaculation, perfection_. It was so easy to maintain your façade back then. Why is it so difficult now?

You find yourself shifting into the chameleon mode again, except this time, you’re imitating Nagi and his perfect control over his body. Your face tightens like a plastic mask and you imagine being able to tweak its individual features like on a character selection screen in those games Nagi loves to play. You move your mouth into a wry smile. It feels stiff and unnatural, but you think this is a response Nagi wouldn’t hate, and that’s all that matters. “Then don’t bother with me,” you say. “Just keep waiting for me from above.”

Internally, you hear the _drip, drip_ sound of doom as you await judgement. Your ability is only a cheap facsimile of others’; under the slightest pressure, it breaks, and you think there must be a crack in your smile or a tremor in your voice that reveals how you really feel. You shake over the possibility of being discovered, but Nagi simply says, “Got it,” and he walks away. It’s a relief, or you think it is, despite the ball of twine still winding itself in the pit of your stomach. As the heir who will inherit the Mikage Corporation, you never thought you would need to hide, but somehow, you’ve developed an ability that allows you to do just that.

It’s cowardly, but after the game, you hide once again, blending in amongst the Blue Lock players, maintaining that plastic face with uncanny precision through dinner and the idle chats that happen before lights out. The pain of losing a familiar, dull throb now, and you hate how you’ve become intimate with it. You nurse it as the lights go out, as everyone’s breath evens into soft slumber, and as you slip out of bed.

This time, you choose to visit the television room, and the walls are filled with screen after screen of you playing. You watch your figure dance across the screens from a million different angles, and it’s mortifying to witness every stumble and fall. Your eyes are getting bleary with exhaustion; colors are swirling in your vision like watered paint down the drain, and you think you should go back to bed— being unprepared is the knell of death in a place like Blue Lock. One poor performance may cut you off from Nagi for the rest of your life (although, it’s possible that that’s already happened). But just as there is something captivating in watching car crashes, you can’t tear your eyes away from how your recorded image strains to chase the ball and fails.

Someone opens the door, and you’ve been feeling so lonely in the misery of yourself that you might even welcome the company. Zantetsu, Chigiri… even Isagi, the boy who was able to enthrall Nagi— anything to distract you from the keening sadness in your throat. You turn around, and it takes a moment for the figure to sharpen in the weary haze of your vision, but when it does, you can only swallow.

Nagi.

His pale hair is illuminated like white moonlight amongst the glow of the screens surrounding him. He looks like a phantom— or perhaps he _is_ a phantom, conjured by your beaten imagination. You haven’t been able to have a face-to-face conversation alone since you two first lost to Isagi, and you doubt that reality would be so kind to offer you an opportunity; perhaps it’s only the wildest reaches of your imagination that this situation could occur. You think about reaching out to grab his hand like you did so often in the past, but you can’t. What if he's real? What if you touch him, and he jerks his hand away, and you receive yet another sign that he can no longer stand your presence? You can’t risk it.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he says, his voice gruff with sleep.

Well, hasn’t Nagi always been a ghost for you? There was a time when he felt tangible and solid and _real_ , but that was just a vapored mirage, and it was inevitable he would dissipate from your life. He was chosen by football, not you, and trying to hold onto him is like trying to catch smoke in your hands. The futility is unbearable. Foolishly, you still want to try.

“What are you doing up?” you ask.

The softest smile passes through his lips, and it lurches your heart, but it’s gone as quickly as it came. “Just couldn’t sleep. What about you?”

“Same.”

He sits down next to you, his long legs tucked into a pretzel, and his knee is so close to yours that just a tiny shift would mean you bump into each other. Nagi studies the videos of you, and you want to shake him by the shoulders and demand, _look at me now_. It’d be petulant. You don’t voice it.

“What do you think is happening outside right now?” When he turns to face you, the light glints off his eyes, and you can only think of the salt spray of the ocean; teal waters against white sand shores. He looks at you expectantly, and you turn your thoughts back to things outside the Blue Lock bubble.

“My parents are probably cursing me everyday,” you say, and when Nagi’s eyes wrinkle in amusement, your heart stutters in response. “They’re planning an elaborate punishment. Maybe they’re plotting how to kidnap me right now… they’ll send me to a temple to live as a monk for a year. At the end of it, I’ll be begging to come back to the real world, and that’s when they trap me into the life of a businessman.”

You continue, “And your parents… they probably turn the news on everyday, waiting for some word about you. Caught in between hoping to see your name and not… wanting to see your face, but knowing the longer you stay here, the better things are for you. And at the end of this, your mom will make seafood stir fry with extra squid because she loves spoiling you—”

You suddenly break off when you realize that Nagi’s stare is hot on your skin. The laughter is gone from his eyes, and you wonder what verbal landmine you tripped over to cause him to be like this.

He reaches out and grabs your arm, and the touch is searing, raising the hairs on your back and collapsing the air in your lungs. His touch confirms it— he’s _really_ here, next to you. When did you become so sensitive? His knee knocks into your leg as he leans in, and your skin feels too tight. His pressured gaze bears down on you, and you can’t parse out the complex emotions in his eyes.

“Your parents love you too,” he says, startling you. You think back on what you just said and realize the disparity between the imagined scenarios. It probably sounded like whining, and that provoked Nagi to try to comfort you, though your reaction can hardly be called comforted. Your heartbeat is echoing in the chambers of your ribcage, and you’re forcing your breaths to be shallow so Nagi doesn’t detect your distress. You hate that you’re so weak.

You pull your arm away and Nagi’s hand falls back to his side. “Of course they do.”

“Mine also love you,” he says, and you blush. He’s right— his parents have been generous with their affection, treating you like a second son. Greedily, you want him to extend that statement, saying, _I love you, too_ , but it’s a hollow hope. Even if he said it, he would never mean it in the way you want.

Nagi examines your face carefully, and his gaze is too intense, so you turn to face the screens again. You don’t know what to say to him anymore. It used to be that words would come like torrents from your mouth, but your throat is parched now.

In the bleakness of this silence, he says, “I wanted to choose you.”

It shocks you, this confession. It touches some of the residual anger left over from the time he chose to play with Isagi. A part of you wants to lash out— _why didn’t you? We were supposed to be friends. We said we would do this, together._ But those words of protest die in your mouth. Instead, you say, “It's fine.”

You can’t blame him anymore for not choosing you; if the past few weeks have taught you anything, it’s that you just aren’t enough. It’s obvious like the fact the sun gives light, water is wet, and you love Nagi. Perhaps it was always like this. Perhaps you were never enough, and you were only ever under the delusion that maybe, one day, you could be.

He doesn’t seem comforted by your words. He says, “I’m sorry—” and you wonder what it would be like to cut him off with a kiss, what sort of aftertaste his lips would leave, but you’re not that shameless. A shake of your head is enough to stop him.

You say, “You had to. There’s nothing else you could've done. Don’t apologize.”

He’s silent but still uncomfortable. You can tell there are other things on his mind, but you think everything that needs to be said has already been said. Your limbs are leadened with exhaustion; it’s about time to return to bed.

Before you head back, some frail thing inside you wants to speak, and you’re too tired to resist it. You turn to Nagi one last time and ask, “Will you wait for me?”

You see sleepiness weighing down his already lidded eyes, but at your question, they widen imperceptibly, reflecting the fluorescent glow of the screens. His head nods a little, and his platinum hair rustles from the movement. He answers, “Of course.”

You find yourself giving another wry smile. You don’t know if it’s the right response.

  
◇-◈-◇

  
You lose one last time.

You’re in the top six— the position Nagi used to be in before he ascended once again, now trailing only after Isagi and Rin. He is once again out of reach from you. It was an inevitable outcome. Chasing after him is tiring, but it will all be over soon.

You are eliminated from Blue Lock. When the overhead system tells you you'll leave at the end of the day, something wailing claws at your organs. They must imagine that it’s a kindness, to leave you some extra time to say goodbye to your peers before you exit the world of football forever. It’s not— you wish they had immediately dragged you out so you wouldn’t be surrounded by all the people you failed to surpass. Someone (not Nagi, and that’s all you need to know) approaches you, about to place their hand on your shoulder, but you abruptly turn on your heel and brush off the gesture.

“Leave me the fuck alone,” you say loudly enough for everyone to hear. The expletive seems to do the trick. No one follows you into the practice arena.

Your emotions oscillate between complete numbness and drowning waves of helplessness, and it’s unbearable. You set a ball at the penalty mark and kick it into a sharp lob towards the net. The blue man keeper dives and knocks it out of the goal area, and you curse under your breath. Of course it wouldn’t go in; considering your record, what else could you possibly expect? You try again, and this time it whizzes past the goalkeeper, but somehow, the success doesn’t settle your heart.

So you try again. And again. And again and again, until your kicks are making the ball fly erratically, and your left leg is throbbing into your side, but you just grit your teeth and press on because you want to purge everything from your brain right now: Blue Lock, your failure, Nagi… you want everything to disappear when your foot connects with the ball, and it hasn’t happened yet, so you keep going.

Twenty kicks more, and the strain in your leg becomes hot, and you’re stumbling after every shot. You can barely aim, and even though every kick brings a punishing intake of pain, the blue man bats each ball away with ease, and you feel sick at watching your efforts be so easily dismissed. _Not enough_ , you think, and that thought alone spurs you to keep going.

Another twenty kicks, and the edges of your vision are blurring, and every breath you take is more like a gasp because you’re so exhausted. The pain is white hot now, but it feels _good_. You can only feel the ball and your foot, and even if you’re on the edge of collapsing, you don’t need to think about the rest of the world, meaning this might be the best you’ve felt in _months_. You want to hold onto this sensation, so you keep telling yourself _just one more_ , and your heart pounds frantically from the continued exertion, and the sweat drying on your skin makes you feel almost cold, and you couldn’t even jog to the other side of the room right now if someone forced you to, but you pull your leg back anyways, like pulling the hammer of a gun before placing the muzzle on your temple.

Suddenly, someone is grabbing you (where did they come from? You must have been concentrating so much on shooting you didn’t see them come in), and your legs finally react to your punishing activity, folding in on themselves as if you’re a newborn fawn. Pathetic. You hear that person call for a medic, and when you look up at your captor, the rest of the world, that thing you were so desperate to ignore, comes rushing back in.

It’s Nagi. Of course it would be. You struggle against his arms, but you’re too fatigued to put up a fight, and really, it’s only because he’s allowing you to lean into him that you can even stand. You look at his face again, and there’s a strange expression you’ve never seen before etched across his features. If you didn’t know Nagi, you would call it fear.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks with his eyebrows still pulled together and his eyes still shimmering with that intense, nameless emotion. You can’t speak because you still haven’t quite caught your breath, but you’ve mustered enough energy to push against Nagi (ever so lightly) as a request to be released. All this time, you’ve been chasing after him, and when he finally holds onto you, you only feel suffocation— invisible hands gripping your throat. Counter-intuitively, he tightens his grip on you.

After a few more seconds, your breath has settled enough for you to say something. The exhaustion has wound your mind into a maze, and you don’t have the energy to restrain yourself in the way you do every day. The perfect marble façade you’ve created is shattering, and underneath your statuesque exterior, the obscene reflection you’ve kept hidden peeks through the cracks.

Your mouth is traitorous. Before you can hold yourself back, you choke out, “I failed.” Your voice is hoarse and weak and pathetic. A flash of blinding shock passes through Nagi’s eyes, and he pulls you to his chest, wrapping his arms around you tighter, placing one hand on the back of your head.

You think, _how long has it been since we’ve hugged_ , but you can’t manage to be excited about it because of your wretched state; you’d rather run away and leave Nagi forever so he would never have to see you in this condition again— God, you’re so fucking _weak_. But then your treacherous mouth opens again, and you find yourself whispering useless things in the crook between Nagi’s neck and shoulder.

“I couldn’t do it… I couldn’t keep up with you… I should've told you this earlier, when we first met, so you wouldn’t have had to wait... So you could've known me from the start.” And you think of how long you’ve been lying to him— to everyone. Your pretense of perfection, your dishonest belief in your future. It’s all shattering at your feet. The curtain is being drawn back, and your hideous portrait is finally being revealed.

The admission tears at your throat and stabs through your heart as if a wild rosebush has grown inside it, but you have to say it aloud— you owe at least that much to Nagi.

“I fail in everything I do.”

You feel Nagi shift, and you think he’s going to pull back and respond while looking into your eyes, but you need to say one last thing that will finally extricate him from your selfish claws. You need to release him from that foolish, naïve promise you made so long ago.

“You don’t need to wait anymore.”

You’ve pulled back enough to see his face, and something terribly fierce flashes in his eyes, but his reaction is cut off by someone suddenly tugging at your limbs, tearing you from his embrace, and you’re being hoisted onto a stretcher. A light is shined into your eyes, and fingers are poking and prodding you, and your exhaustion is flooding back into you, making the edges of your vision go black. You hear Nagi protesting about something while two people grab the ends of the stretcher you’re lying on. As you’re lifted, you turn your head to see Nagi struggle against two people blocking his path to you. You wonder why he is struggling, but the thought passes away idly. When you make eye contact, he stills.

You see him bite his lip and tense in the way he does before he chases after the ball, and you think he’s going to launch himself over the others so he can reach you, and your breath catches. _Impossible_ , you think. You’ve already confessed your ultimate sin to him— how could he possibly want you? But his gaze is so sharp you can’t mistake his intent, and you find yourself falling into that treacherous trap of hope again.

Then, he hesitates. That wavering moment lasts long enough for the medical personnel to step in between the two of you, making you lose sight of Nagi as you’re carried out of the room. You close your eyes.

For a second there, you actually thought he might follow you, but the thought is so ridiculous, it makes you laugh.

When you were younger and more naïve, you imagined a future with Nagi, hand in hand as both of you were guided by your childish dream. But he runs so quickly these days that your lungs burn and legs ache just trying to to keep pace. It was always like this: him striding away in leaps and bounds while you stumbled at his heels; nowadays, you can barely even catch his shadows.

You’ve always been the one chasing after Nagi, but he would never do the same.

◇-◈-◇

  
Your name is Nagi Seishiro, and you’ve lost your best friend.

You were ejected from Blue Lock just two days after Reo left. Isagi and Rin are the only two left in the facility, but frankly, you could give a rat’s ass about who might win. For the past 48 hours, you’ve only been able to think about Reo.

When you last saw him, he was barely even able to stand. Then, when you went to catch him, he started saying terrible things, and your mind has gone numb from replaying the last words he gave you.

_You don’t need to wait anymore._

You should've followed him. You should've said something. You _know_ Reo— he would never expose his vulnerabilities to anyone but you. For the past few weeks of Blue Lock, you knew he was struggling, but you rationalized it away. Blue Lock is a competition; it contorts its participants into incredible shapes, applying pressure until their bones almost break for the sake of winning. You thought the changes Reo was undergoing was just that, but something more vicious was happening to him, and you only knew about it at the very end of it. You wonder what he had been suffering through this whole time. You wonder how you could've been so blind.

The medical worker that had stopped you had told you that in three days, you were guaranteed to be released from Blue Lock. That after pushing his body to its extreme, Reo would certainly have to rest for at least that amount of time. That you would definitely see Reo again.

Just two days later, and nobody can tell you where he is.

Panic blazes into you like a wildfire, and after a series of increasingly desperate questions, it's clear no one knows where he has gone (or, at the very least, they refuse to tell you). You don’t know what to do. You’re handed your phone, and you immediately call Reo, but unexpectedly, an automated message tells you the number is out of service. You double-check; triple-check, hoping your eyes are deceiving you, but it’s his number. You even call again in case you might have hallucinated the message, but the same thing happens, and your stomach sinks to the ground.

You go through every social media application you can remember and search for Reo’s account to direct-message him, but you can’t find anything. The panic has a claw-like grip on your heart. You know the answer, but you don’t want to believe it. Everywhere you search, you can’t find him. It’s like his presence has been wiped from the face of this planet.

You quickly type up an email, but even before you press send, you know what’s going to happen. As predicted, you receive an automatic message telling you that the email address does not exist, and your heart crumbles in your chest like a cliff against a relentless wave.

He’s gone. How could that be? Just two days ago, you held him in your arms, and now he’s disappeared without a trace.

As a last ditch move, you decide to Google his name, expecting the typical business articles or perhaps a mention of Blue Lock, but at the top of the search results is a tabloid piece. You click it and skim the first paragraph.

Reo has left for America.

Your heart pounds and you suddenly feel too tight within your body, like your skin is stretched too thinly over your limbs, like walls are closing in on you. The article notes that Reo briefly attended Blue Lock but was unable to become the ultimate striker, and now he’s left Japan to go study business in America. It’s like drowning, you think, as breathing suddenly becomes a desperate act. It’s like waves crashing over you again and again, and you’re dizzy with the impact, trying to keep your head above water. Nothing helps. He’s gone.

Your name is Nagi Seishiro, and you’ve lost your first love.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Ah, welcome to my tragic angst fest. In another fic I wrote (Tomorrow, Together), there are some events at the beginning of Nagi's & Reo's friendship that are the same; think of this fic as an alternate universe to that one. I'm really quite in love with this fic. I feel like second person can be used to devastating effect for angsty fics. If you ended up tearing up (or even crying), not gonna lie, I'm a little proud. 


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